


most presumptuous of men

by madanach



Category: Borderlands
Genre: Gen, Implied Child Abuse, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-04
Updated: 2013-07-04
Packaged: 2017-12-17 16:34:09
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/869650
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/madanach/pseuds/madanach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>His grandmother is small and frail and threatening, skin as leathery as the ground beneath her feet, waiting for John before he even makes it known that he’s on her planet. She wages a one-woman vendetta against the earth, the sky, the volcano framing her back door, and John himself; and under her vicious hands he thrives.</p>
            </blockquote>





	most presumptuous of men

**Author's Note:**

> featuring my ridiculous handsome jack feelings and his grandmother as the prophet of pandora.

"Do you know the story of Tantalus, John?" his grandmother asks, the shadows of her eyes deepening and subsiding. From his seat on the ground John furrows his brow, shakes his head -- Tantalus is home, Tantalus is rocks and shining depths and nothing more. She smiles, looks back at the fires framing her face, leans forward.

 

He loses his parents when he's eight years old. It's no great loss -- he never loves them as he should, and they graciously return the favor, a relationship born out of tradition and necessity as opposed to any great emotion. They are old, and they die quietly, leaving him to the vapid clutches of a system that would like no more than for him to spirit himself away. He passes his ninth birthday in the cargo bay of a Lance cruiser, their base hospitality proving shelter enough to get him to Pandora. He's never been to the outer reaches of the Eden system before. It's barren and jagged and feels like he's living on bones. John loves it.

His grandmother is small and frail and threatening, skin as leathery as the ground beneath her feet, waiting for John before he even makes it known that he's on her planet. She wages a one-woman vendetta against the earth, the sky, the volcano framing her back door, and John himself; and under her vicious hands he thrives.

 

She calls them fire rocks, or black glass, or Pandora-stones—says they come from the mountain to the West, says that when it shoots heat and anger and flame into the sky it falls back down and hardens. The product is a shining stone, dark as night and twice as sharp. John pushes dry grass away from a glint, listens as his grandmother waxes poetic about dead gods, wonders if the stubborn earth could part long enough for him to snatch its wealth.

"Tantalus stole from the gods," says his grandmother. She sits in her chair like she always does, shadow dancing long on their yard as the sun sets behind her. He's at her feet and scraping at the ground, glancing up when she stops talking.

"Well, what did he steal?"

"Nectar and ambrosia," she says, idly kicking at the dirt below her good leg. "The food of their kingdom, and a love of their ruler. Mortals would dine at their palace, but they were not allowed to bring any of this forbidden fruit with them. Tantalus stole a plate and took it back to his home, and, as always, the gods saw past him and noted his deceit." Her scuffed shoe digs furrows into the earth. "They were less than pleased."

 

She teaches him how to shoot. She teaches him how to wire hostile technology, how to work with melted plastic, how to hold a body so it will take bullets instead of you. She teaches him how to survive, but more importantly, she teaches him how to hate.

 

"He held a feast."

"Why would he hold a feast?" It's best to give her what she wants, he's found, lest her mind wander too wildly. He still scratches at the dusty ground.

"He was angry at the gods, see, and he wanted to regain their good graces, so he took what he loved most, and he fed it to them."

"What did he love most?" John asks absentmindedly. The Pandora-stone sits, stubborn and unmoving, just out of his grasp. He looks up, irritated. "Well?"

She smiles, and he can tell that even if the setting sun wasn't sending her face into shadow it wouldn't reach her eyes.

"His child."

 

When he is thirteen, he swears to kill her. She tells him that actions speak louder than words.

 

The rock begins to move, slowly but surely, dark and shiny and giving ever-so-slightly as John greedily digs through the dirt. He reaches down into the hole -- not deep, not in this dense soil, but large enough that the sight of it feels like a victory.

"They punished him for his troubles."

"Hm?" John asks, eyes intent on the buried treasure beneath his hands. His fingernail jolts something loose and dark shine slips out, falls down to lie in the disturbed soil.

"The gods. Their leader came down from his palace in the sky and walked among the mortals, came to Tantalus's castle and his throne, and told him his fate."

The fire-stone is barely the size of John's hand, but it's heavy and the edges threaten to slice his skin. He balances it carefully in one hand, tilts it so the red sun's rays glint and flash off the edge. "What did he say?"

Her jagged fingernails click on the arm of her chair. "For you, Tantalus," she intones, voice thick with imagined power, "most presumptuous of men, you who dared reach for our foods and dirty us with your base sacrifice, you are to be flayed, and torn, and brought down to Hades, where my brother the Death-king shall watch you for as long as his reign stays, and you shall endure torture as none imaginable."

John looks up from his dirty hands, the black glass slipping and jumping in his fingers. "They kept him there?"

"Aye," she says, "they kept him in a freshwater lake under a flowering plum tree, and he was thirsty, and he was so hungry his belly felt as if it was being eaten raw, but the fruits of his labor evaded his grasp, and the water that rolled off his brow washed away from his lips." Her head tilts, and for a moment it feels as if she's looking through him.

"Forever?" John asks, clenching his prize so tightly his knuckles turn white.

"Forever," she says. Behind her, Pandora spits out fire.

The stone crashes down.

 

_You claw at a deepening wound, raw and stinging, oxide and rust dripping into your eyes, your lips, dancing over your tongue because there's something, somewhere down there: maybe near, maybe far, maybe a bloody death away—but you don't care enough anymore. You think, somewhere in the back of your mind, that you're screaming, but you know you can't stop now; this is it, maybe destiny's under your skin, maybe the blue that stays when the red washes away will keep you alive. Maybe one day the stories will be written about you. Maybe heroics come from scars and unrestrained self-destruction. When she comes to the door you let her see, you tell her through your traitorous tongue that you've got something inside you that burns, and her fingers are pulling, tearing, carving you to the bone, in the corner of your eye you're shaking and screaming, but she only believes in martyrs and it hurts it hurts it HURTS—_

 

The skin doesn't grow back. There's a legend branded on his face like he's marked for something extraordinary, but he never

quite

figures

it

out.

 

 _Daddy,_ the girl smiles out, looks at him like he's something bright and shiny and new, and her heartbeat rattles his bones. _Daddy._ That smile again. He breathes her in, and everything falls into place.


End file.
